The ABC's of Sherlock Holmes
by why-do-we
Summary: A series of hurt/comfort, sick!, eating disorder, and a few fluff stories as done by the letters of the alphabet featuring Sherlock and John.
1. A: abandonment

**author's notes: **I changed this up a bit due to comments that Sherlock was too OOC. Hopefully this fixes the problem! I like this one better anyway. :)

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><p><strong>A <strong>IS FOR: _abandonment_

"John."

John Watson groaned as he felt the sweat slicked hands of England's first and only consulting detective press against his arm, rocking his limb back and forth with a fervent shake.

"John. Do wake up."

"Sherlock - it's _early_," John whined as he snatched his pillow from beneath his head, wrapping it around his ears as he turned and quickly planted his face further down into the bevy of sheets draped across his chest. "My train leaves in a few hours," he continued as he flapped his hand in the direction of the corner of the bedroom, motioning to a piled set of luggage that was both neatly stacked and arranged by precise weight and shape.

"And you don't sleep on trains."

"It's not that I don't. It's that I _can't,_" John corrected with a frown as once more he pawed off the oddly wet palm of his persistent flat-mate as Sherlock prodded at his arm once more. "Which is _exactly_ why this sleep right now is so important. So _please_, Sherlock, take this in the kindest way possible but – _piss off_. I mean seriously," he grunted with a shout. "You've got that ruddy huge brain up in that head of yours so why don't you damn well use it from time to time?" His voice had grown loud, so loud in fact that he was sure he heard Mrs. Hudson rattling about downstairs as the noise reached her.

There was no reply from the younger man and immediately John felt a nauseating wave of regret. He hadn't meant to be so stern but he was in desperate need of a good night's sleep and Sherlock had known that. In fact he had specifically taken the time at supper to warn him that he was not to be woken – that he had a train ride first thing in the morning – that he didn't sleep on trains – that he had to be well rested because as soon as he arrived in Spain he had to give a presentation a mere hour later. All very important reasons as to why someone would want their rest. Sherlock had even nodded as he'd typed away furiously on his laptop's keyboard, as though he actually understood that what was important to a normal human being might actually be important to John. Just because Sherlock could go days on end without food or sleep didn't mean the good doctor could and it was remarkable how often Sherlock let slip of that fact.

John sighed heavily, propping himself up atop his elbow as he turned towards the bedroom's open door. "I'm sorry," he apologized softly. He could see the detective still standing there. Sherlock's face was as blank and as expressionless as it often was yet John could see his chest moving in the tiniest of sporadic heaving motions."Sherlock, are you – are you crying?" he asked incredulously.

"I don't _cry,_ John," Sherlock sniped impetuously.

"Sherlock I can _hear_ you, you imbecile. Your breathing is shaking like a wet dog."

"I'm not crying, John. Please try to get a hold of yourself."

John sat up, blinking his eyes furiously as he waited for his pupils to become accustomed to the dark. "Right then," he said simply. Reaching towards his side his fingertips fumbled for the switch of his lamp until at last there was light. True to the detective's dismissal, Sherlock's pallid face was dry. "I guess you're not."

Sherlock said nothing, his chest continuing it's jostling movements. It was then that John noticed the unfocused gaze his companion wore. The detective's eyes seemed far vaguer than usual and he was blinking at an alarming rate. His face, though pale, was haunted by a pinkish hue of perspiration and his breathing was becoming far more jagged than John would've liked to hear.

"Sherlock, are you feeling ill?"

Visibly disoriented, Sherlock shut his eyes for a brief moment. "A little," he admitted, though John could tell it was begrudgingly.

"Well you know what they say – sleep is the best medicine," John said, hoping his flat-mate would take the hint though he knew it was most likely to pass by right over his head. Despite being a master of the obvious and all that surrounded him, Sherlock often lacked the ability to grasp the subtlety in any sort of human interaction.

"I'm fairly certain the phrase is laughter, John. _Laughter_ is the best medicine."

"Always need to be right, don't we?" John grinned wryly, shaking his head. "I don't suppose you _tried_ the sleep thing first though did you? I only ask since I know you're not really the laughing type."

"I tried." Sherlock's eyes had forced themselves shut once more, leaving John to wonder if he was feeling genuinely ill or simply seeking further attention. The worst part was that he wouldn't put it past him either. He could be such a bloody child, that Sherlock.

"Funny how I don't believe you." John was sitting up all the way now, swinging his legs out from under the blankets as he reached his hand forward to press gently against the detective's forehead. "You're not warm – though you _are_ sweating like an absurdly fat man."

"A pig," Sherlock corrected.

John glanced up as he removed his palm. "Beg pardon?"

"The phrase is sweating like a _pig_." Sherlock tutted. "Honestly, John. What's it like up in that unnecessarily empty brain of yours?"

"Sherlock, you _are_ aware that pigs don't sweat – aren't you?" John stared at his flat-mate incredulously. It was the solar system debacle all over again. "I mean, not really anyway. Not like a giant fat man just off the fifth flight of stairs at least. Which, by the way, is exactly what you look like right now. Tell me," he insisted as he stared up at Sherlock with unwavering eyes. "When's the last time you ate?"

"Today," Sherlock sniffed indignantly, staring down at John over the bridge of his nose with a hint of defiance.

"Nice try but I've been with you all day. I haven't seen you eat a bite." John lightly pressed against Sherlock's wrists, feeling for his pulse. "If you couldn't sleep why didn't you just turn on the telly?"

"I did," Sherlock said matter-of-factually. "It bored me."

"Everything bores you, Sherlock. Nothing new there." Satisfied that the detective's vitals were all within normal range he sat back against the bed. "You know your brother's always awake this time of night. Why couldn't you have just called him?"

Sherlock stared at him through his mess of dark curls, his mouth extremely tight and his brow deeply furrowed. John nodded, sighing. "_Ah_, of course. No point talking to someone who's awake when you could just as easily wake someone _else_ up. Someone who desperately needed their sleep, I might add."

"John," Sherlock interrupted haughtily with a demanding sigh. "I feel ill. Please quit your incessant school girl chattering and do something at once."

"I see," John paused. "And just what would you like me to do about it?"

"Obviously the only solution is that you cancel your trip and stay here with me the next few days instead – you know," Sherlock wagered blandly as he rubbed at his eyes with a stifled yawn, "in case I die. Which I'm sure at the present moment is _quite_ imminent."

"But of course." John did his best to hide his smile. "_Obviously_," he agreed vigorously, masking his sarcasm only a bit. Tongue dragging against the back of his teeth as he at last broke into a grin he motioned for the detective to join him at the side of the bed. "You _do_ know that I can't skip out on this trip, Sherlock, don't you?" he asked lightly as Sherlock approached the bed. "Are you afraid I won't be coming back or something?" he teased, though grabbing his flat-mate's hand in the process. Sherlock flinched instantly. "Sherlock," John reassured softly. "I _am_ coming back, you know."

Sherlock's expression remained utterly unfazed, his jaw as taut as ever. "I know that," he snapped hastily.

"Then why are you in here right now?"

"I told you. I couldn't sleep."

"Right," John nodded. "And the telly was all rubbish. Yes, I remember."

Sherlock shook his head with yet another tut. "Absolutely _dreadful_."

John sighed, rubbing at his eyes blearily as he forced himself not check the numbers on the alarm clock nearby. "Sherlock, if you've got nothing more to say would it be all possible for you to let me sleep now? I _really_ can't sleep on trains."

"Yes," Sherlock muttered with a scrunch of the nose. "You mentioned that."

"And yet you're not leaving," John noted with dry frustration as the detective continued to stand idly beside the bed, hands clasped behind his back as he stared straight ahead. "Of _course _you're not leaving. _Why would you_ - when it's so much ruddy fun to drive me to insanity through lack of sleep? " He groaned as he talked aloud, fully aware that Sherlock was not listening in the slightest. "Sherlock," he sighed at last, moments later. "Do you want to just sleep here tonight?"

Sherlock frowned. "I'm not a child, John."

"You say that and yet you wouldn't well know it the way you're acting," John remarked with a roll of the eyes. Despite the detective's response, he pulled at the blankets atop the bed, making just enough room for the younger man to lie down. "Look, the offer stands if you'd like. See, plenty of room for those ridiculous beanpoles you call legs." He motioned to the now open space beside him. "_However_," he continued as he turned his back on Sherlock, letting out an enormous yawn. "If you so choose to decline, there's the door." Without bothering to lift his head to look, he simply waved his thumb at the bedroom's entrance before dropping his hand at his side and pressing up against his pillow with a satisfied murmur.

And sure enough, not even a few moments later the warmth of his flat-mate's cheek could be felt against his back, Sherlock's mess of curls brushing against the bare skin of his neck as he heard the detective's breathing at last grow calm. At last, calm. At last, quiet. At last, stillness.

John smiled to himself as he sunk further into the sheets.

At last –_ sleep_.

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><p>Thoughts? Reviews? I have<strong> A-F<strong> picked out but if you have any suggestions for the rest of the alphabet I'd love to hear them! **xoxo**, why-do-we


	2. B: binge

**B **IS FOR: binge

"_I know, Sherlock. I know. It's okay. Let it out." _

The horrific sound of pained retching quickly filled the walls of the tiny restroom. John's hands were immediately busy sponging down the detective's bare, pale back with cold, calming water as he murmured absently into Sherlock's ear – staying as close as he could without crowding the considerably ill man. A second bout of vomiting followed in mere seconds and as the detective thrust his head once more over the porcelain bowl, John dropped the cloth to the floor – grabbing his flat-mate gently by the belly as he stroked his thumb against the detective's shaking abdomen in small, pacifying circles. He could feel Sherlock's muscles fighting against themselves as his body rid itself of everything it once owned and despite the detective's slight squirms against his touch, he continued his thumb's course of action, his other arm now wrapped around his flat-mate's shoulders for support.

"Can't you give me some medicine? You're a doctor, aren't you?"

"Sherlock, you've thrown up everything I've given you. I'm sorry," John apologized softly. "You ate way too much and your body just needs to get it out."

"This is a most unpleasant experience, John," Sherlock whimpered as his stomach failed to settle in the least - growling and rumbling beneath John's hand like a sick, wild animal. He gulped at the saliva pooling in his mouth, feverishly willing his insides to stay put for the time being.

John's lips pursed into a half-grin. "Yeah, well _most _people aren't too keen on vomiting. At least the normal ones, that is. I myself find it quite horrendous."

"_No_," Sherlock argued, his breaths coming in soft pants as he swallowed every few beats, trying to keep his insides at bay. "I mean, _yes,_" he countered as he shook his head - trying to contain the fog that was filling his oh-so-clever brain. "The vomiting is brutal, of course, but I'm referring to this odd business of your hand on my stomach." He paused, his gaze flickering downwards with a frustrated discomfort. "Please remove it at once." As if to make a point he tried to break free of the doctor's grip once more, yet John held on all the firmer, pulling Sherlock further against his chest.

"Absolutely not," John responded firmly, his mouth forming into a soft frown. Sherlock's head was beside his own now, and he couldn't help but cringe at the matted state of the detective's black curls, drenched in sweat and tangled against themselves.

"And why not?"

John felt Sherlock stiffen as what he could only assume was another wave of nausea began to hit him. He continued to gently rub his palm against the detective's belly, still surprised at how oddly bloated it felt beneath his fingertips despite the fact that he was sure Sherlock had very little left to vomit up. "Because it's helping," he said quite simply. And it was. Every liquid, every pill, and every glass of water he had watched the detective swig down had presented itself again within moments, all in far less pleasant states. Sherlock had been restless since the moment the nausea had first hit, unable to stay still as he shifted about - his distended stomach awkwardly painful with each position he'd tried. John had watched him move from the couch, to his bed, then to the kitchen table, until finally he'd made his way to the bathroom floor - curling up into a miserable, sick ball - waiting for what he knew was surely inevitable. Yet here and now - this was the first time in hours the detective had been fairly still. With every circle and every pat he could feel Sherlock easing into a slightly less - well a slightly less _Sherlockian_ state. "And don't you dare try and say that it's not."

While Sherlock did not protest, John could sense that he wanted to yet instead he merely sunk further against the doctor's chest, seeming to embrace the warmth the extra body provided. Eyes closing briefly, he pinched the bridge of his nose with a pitiful, nasal moan. "Don't tell Anderson."

"Don't tell Anderson, _what_?"

Sherlock sighed a bit over-dramatically as he begrudgingly allowed John to continue massaging his aching abdomen, the cramping finally ceasing little by little as John's warm fingertips kneaded his swollen belly into a far more soothed state. "That I died on the floor of a bloody loo."

John rolled his eyes. "You're not dying."

"And yet I'm _quite _certain that I am."

"Sherlock, you ate an entire pound of rice and a carton of Chinese," John interrupted, "which I had bought for _myself_ I might add," he pointed out quickly, his eyes dancing about with intense irritation. "The worst part of it is, is that the one time you swear up and down you're not hungry enough for your own meal you go and eat all of mine. No wonder your poor gut's trying to clear itself out. It's used to only tea and the occasional piece of toast. Not an entire bloody order of spicy orange chicken."

"John." Sherlock swallowed hard, ignoring the doctor's words as his pale cheeks turned a fresh shade of green. "I think I might vomit again." He scrambled up out of John's grasp almost immediately yet was a few seconds too late, shakily heaving the contents of his stomach down the front of his own chest and into his lap as involuntary tears burned at the corners of his already watering eyes.

John was caught between laughter and disgust all at once. It was almost ironic in a way. The world's most brilliant detective had vomit trailing down his boxer shorts. Sherlock's face crumpled until he seemed almost childlike with a miserable stare and a distinguishable pout. "Right then," he said as he cleared his throat, his hand over his mouth as his eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly. "Let's get you cleaned up."

"John?"

John sighed. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"When I'm clean, you may continue what you were doing earlier – I _suppose_. That is, if you really feel so compelled to. The rubbing that is." Sherlock did his best to sound as disinterested as ever but in his ailing, John could tell it was more of a plea then a concession. It was amazing how he made it sound like he was doing the doctor a favor. He had a knack for turning things around like that – forever protecting himself with a stoic sort of nonchalance.

The corners of John's lips curled upwards with a combination of both amusement and pity. "Only if you promise to never binge on Chinese _ever_ again. It looks proper disgusting running down your chin. Actually that gives me an idea," he muttered as he yanked his mobile out from the depths of his pockets, whipping the casing open as he snapped a quick picture. "There. Now there's photographic evidence that even the great Sherlock Holmes isn't immune from getting a little sick on himself now and then. And by the way, if you _ever_ pull a stunt like this again, this photo will be making the rounds to both Anderson and Donovan's mobiles. Are we clear?"

"_You wouldn't_."

John nodded firmly. "I would. Now run yourself a bath, wash up, and we'll see how you feel once you've got a bit of soap on you."

Sherlock said nothing, bringing himself slowly and carefully up off the ground as he began to turn the shower's knobs – water spraying from the faucets in tiny spurts. "John?" he murmured a few minutes later, his hand underneath the warm fall of the water as he tested the temperature.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry I ate all your Chinese. I'll buy you some more tomorrow."

"You know what, Sherlock?" John's nose wrinkled as his mind quickly rehashed all that had taken place in the small restroom that evening. "I think I'll pass. In fact," he added, sounding quite sure of himself as his eyes drifted towards Sherlock's bone white, still vomit-stained chest. He grimaced. "I don't think I'll be wanting Chinese for a very, _very_ long time."

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><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: Thank you guys for your reviews! I hope this chapter is up to snuff. I don't know if I love it. I might make some changes but for now here it is. xoxo why-do-we


	3. C: cranium

**C **IS FOR: cranium

"John, I don't think you should be taking those."

John's hands were too busy fumbling with the childproof cap of a bottle of aspirin for him to listen to his flat-mate's warnings. "Yes, of course. I'll get it in a second," he murmured absently – obviously not having heard a word that had been said.

Sherlock appeared quizzical, nose wrinkling slightly as he stared blankly at the couch where the doctor sat, still wrestling with the small white bottle. "Get _what_?"

"What?" At last, John looked up from his struggle. Sherlock could see the pain reflecting in his eyes, his features tense and his eyebrows knotted together with what appeared to be an unfaltering wince.

"I _said_ – I don't think you should be taking those." Sherlock lowered his violin, which had been perched neatly atop his shoulder. Bow still in hand, he pointed in the doctor's general direction. "They expired years ago. They won't do you a bit of good now."

John's eyes widened with disbelief, the bottle's contents rattling about as he shook his hands. "_Years_ ago? Sherlock, why on _earth_ do you still have these?"

Sherlock gazed at the wall ahead, licking his lower lip as he answered. "Posterity. Obviously."

"_Posterity_."

"That's exactly what I said."

"Of course," John groaned, tossing the bottle to the floor as his hands flew to his face. Sherlock watched as the doctor began to rub vehemently at his forehead - his wince coiling into a suffering grimace.

"Am I to assume you have a headache?"

Peeking through the split opening between his fingers, John's expression soured all the more. "And just _what _might have tipped you off, Sherlock?" Dropping his hands to his knees with an audible slap, he glared at the detective. "Is it the fact that I just spent twenty minutes trying to open a bottle of damn aspirin – which by the way you _could_ have mentioned was expired at any point – or is it the fact that I've been clutching my head in pain since the moment I've been home? Lovely of you to keep playing your violin in my ear though. That did a great, fat lot of help," he snapped, voice dripping with sarcasm as he glanced at the stringed instrument with visible disdain.

Normally he loved when the detective played. But not today. Not this afternoon. Not with this bloody bomb going off in his skull.

Ignoring the outburst, Sherlock rose from his chair and quickly sat beside the doctor on the couch. "You know," he stated flatly as he reached his hands across the older man's head. "I used to get headaches all the time as a child." Pressing the pads of his fingertips into John's scalp, he gingerly began to massage.

"You did?" John appeared to be surprised, sighing as he felt some of the pressure leave his skull. Sherlock's fingers moved to his temples, moving in slow rhythmic patterns as he nodded - eyes intently focused upon the doctor's forehead, his own brow crinkled in concentration.

"Mycroft used to say I deserved them. It was punishment for being such a little know it all. But I had a different theory."

"_Oh_? And just what would that have been?"

Sherlock's fingers ceased their motion and he stared at John as though the answer were obvious. "Too much genius," he said at last.

"I see," John grinned, eyes shutting as Sherlock's hands moved to his brow, pinching and twisting at the skin and muscles around his features. The motions may have been odd to say the least, but they were certainly effective. "And not enough room in that head of yours, I suppose?"

Sherlock nodded. "Thus causing the pain of what one would refer to as a headache, yes."

"So tell me, then – how did you learn to do, well do _this_?" John's own hands waved in the general direction of Sherlock's still gently moving fingertips.

"Mycroft would do it for me," Sherlock responded stoically, peering at the doctor through his mane of curls. "Open," he directed as he prodded at John's mouth. "Relax your jaw. You're too tense. It's causing half your pain."

Dubiously, John allowed his lips to part. Sure enough, within an instant, he felt the muscles in his face begin to relax. "I thought," he began slowly, swallowing as he continued. "I thought you said Mycroft was the one who thought you deserved the headaches?"

"Yes well," Sherlock replied.

John's lashes fluttered open and shut in rapid succession, confused at the curt response. "_Well_?"

"Well what?"

"Exactly," John said, a bit exasperatedly. "Well _what_? It makes no sense. If Mycroft was the one who thought you should be having the headaches in the first place then why did he bloody well try to help you with them? "

"Because he's my brother and he loves me. In his own way."

John's lips pursed with a bit of a mischievous smirk. "I suppose then by _that_ logic that you must love me. I mean, here you are rubbing my head. Just like your brother would do for you," he said, knowing full well that Sherlock would know he was only teasing. Or at least he _hoped_ the detective would know he was only teasing. Sometimes with Sherlock, one just never knew.

Sherlock said nothing, his gaze vacant and transfixed upon the ceiling. At long last, pulled from whatever train of thought he seemed to be engaged in, his eyes lowered. Sherlock's hands slid to the doctor's neck, pinching delicately at the surrounding muscles. "You need some ice," he said, breaking the silence, much to John's relief. "Or perhaps a frozen bag of peas. The cold will help."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I think your theory is right, you know." John nodded to himself, patting his flat-mate's knee with a commending sort of clap.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "And just which theory would that be?"

John grinned, extending his fingertips as he placed it firmly in the center of the detective's forehead. "Too much genius" he said with a proud sort of crow. The pounding in his skull had now been all but completely extinguished thanks to Sherlock's handiwork. He would have to remember to thank Mycroft one of these days for teaching his little brother such a useful skill. "You've got too much genius and not enough bloody room!"

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><p>These reviews have been so wonderful thank you everybody! I was looking at some of the letter suggestions and I'm definitely going to use some of them. Don't worry I'll give credit when I do. Please keep reading. I hope you continue to like it! xoxo why-do-we<p> 


	4. D: Dramamine

**D** IS FOR: Dramamine

"Absolutely _not_."

John sighed with the minutest of frowns, his hand outstretched and palm open as he pressed the contents between his inwardly curled fingers closer to the consulting detective. A small, stark white pill sat in the open space of his slightly calloused hand. "Take it, Sherlock." The tone of his voice would lead anyone to believe that he was at the very end of his wits with little to no patience to spare for the younger man's protests.

"John," Sherlock said quite sternly, eyes darkening as they narrowed into two small slits. He brushed the doctor's hand aside and shook his head fervidly. "The point of pills such as that is to dull the senses. I have no desire to do such a thing, especially considering the fact that we're on our way to a crime scene."

"_Right_," John nodded curtly, thrusting his hand once more beneath the consulting detective's chin. "A crime scene that requires a forty minute ferry ride," he added with a hint of exasperation. "On the water. Where people get seasick. Which is what this pill is for." He paused, his gaze drifting about before settling upon two conversing figures: Anderson and Donovan. "That is, unless you _enjoy_ the thought of vomiting profusely in front of those two."

Sherlock's face wrinkled with immediate distaste and his hand hovered above the pill momentarily before snapping rigidly back at his side. "I refuse to numb my brain on account of those two – those two," he hesitated, visibly appearing to struggle for the right word as his pale lips stretched into a small, thin line. "Those two absolute_ dullards_." His voice was practically ripe with disdain. "Besides, I don't need _pills_, John. Medication is for those who are weak of mind or have nothing better to do then swallow down a bunch of hideously disproportionate lies."

"Well it's a good thing I'm not a doctor," John muttered with chipper sarcasm, mouth pursing as he shook his head.

Sherlock ignored him, continuing on. "Did you know that there's a spot on your hand that if you pinch it just the right way that you can counteract all feeling of motion sickness? And yet these pharmaceutical companies churn out drug after drug just to slow the human race down by convincing them they have no other options."

"So you'll be _pinching_ your _hand_ then," John said dubiously, his brow quirking ever so slightly as he cocked his head to the side. "Right. Of course. Makes perfect sense."

"You doubt me."

"No, that's not me," John said reassuringly. "That's my years of medical training you're hearing. But what do they know? I mean how can they compete with the utterly _fantastic_ mind of Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock frowned. "I sense you're being sarcastic."

"Oh you do, do you?" John glared.

"I'm not questioning your medical abilities, John. I'm just saying I don't want the stupid pill."

"Fine then. Have it your way," John said, shoulders shrugging as he slid the pill back into the case he had lodged in the front pocket of his coat. The day had barely broken and he was already exhausted beyond reasonable belief.

"Did the freak take his pill?" Donovan's voice carried from across the deck where she still stood in a small huddle with both Anderson and Lestrade who were both glancing over the paperwork for the morning's case. Apparently a cop had been murdered and dumped on a buoy fairly far out into the ocean and while it wasn't their normal jurisdiction, Lestrade had insisted that his team be on the case. A few other detectives were spread out across the tiny ferry, all chattering amongst themselves as they prepared for the morning's work.

John watched as Sherlock opened his mouth to respond. Quickly, he cut him off. "No," he shouted back with a crossing motion of the hands. "He's going to rub his bloody hands instead."

Donovan smirked, laughing loudly as she turned back towards the small group of police now surrounding her.

A loud clang resounded through the thick, foggy air and the ferry began to move. The water was rough and already the small vessel was battling against the current and wind, bobbing ferociously with each little tug.

Sherlock glowered. John, however, was in no mood. He'd seen the detective on many a long car ride and it was always the same. An hour in and the younger man was always shifting about queasily, loudly complaining that sitting still for such a long time was an incredible waste of his massive intellect and wide variety of skills. He would become completely unbearable, and John knew that this ferry ride would be no different.

Not in the least.

Sure enough, halfway through the journey John noticed that Sherlock's hands were no longer busily clamped down upon one another, pinching the so-called magical spot. Instead they were resting lightly against his middle, rubbing circles in what the doctor could only imagine was a futile attempt to self soothe. A glistening sheen of perspiration had crept up along the nape of his neck and spread across his strikingly high cheekbones. His skin was white. Whiter than chalk. Whiter than John had _ever _seen.

And he was swallowing. _A lot_.

With no hesitation, John swiftly grabbed the detective's hand in his own, blanching at just how saturated with sweat it was. Firmly grasping Sherlock's fingers, he tugged. "Come on then, let's get you to the toilet before anyone sees."

Obediently, Sherlock allowed him to lead. Eyes downcast, he shuffled behind the doctor – silently grateful for the hand holding onto his as it was getting more and more difficult to see. Numb, dizzying spots of black and white were buzzing in his head and he was almost relieved when he heard the sound of the loo door locking behind them with a slam. Much to his chagrin, he felt John's hand wriggle from his own, only to reappear atop his head, gingerly pushing him towards what he could only assume was the toilet.

At least he _hoped_ that was what it was. Immediately his stomach began to revolt. He sunk his nails into his wrist, doing his best to keep from vomiting. He couldn't hear anything, see anything, _feel anything_. Until he felt it all, rising up along the back of his throat as he retched painfully into the bowl below. It was minutes before he could feel John's hands against his back. Minutes before he could hear the doctor's soft murmurs, mixed with a spattering of pity and the ever necessary 'I told you so.' Minutes before he realized someone was on the other side of the door, yelling loudly.

"Stay put," John ordered, resting his hand atop the detective's head once more. Sherlock nodded lethargically, still dazed and lost within a haze of spots and sick.

Clearing his throat, John went to the door, cracking it slightly so that only a sliver of his face could be seen. Staring back were both Anderson and Donovan, a combination of disgust and amusement pasted across their puzzled faces.

"We heard vomiting," Anderson said, trying to peer around the doctor, yet to no avail.

"Is the freak sick?" Donovan inquired, barely fighting the smirk that was hedging on the corner of her lips. John felt a sort of anger swell within him. It wasn't just their insensitivity. It was their pure enjoyment of torturing and bullying that really got him heated. They were _loving_ this. Absolutely loving it. "Serves him right not taking his pill."

"Actually that was me." John stared directly at the two of them through the space in the door, wanting nothing more than to see them fly overboard with every pocket of air the ferry hit. "No, Sherlock had the right idea. I should have listened to him. And now I'm, you know, _sick_." He coughed and winced for dramatic effect, placing a hand against his stomach with a sour look.

"It was – _you_?" Donovan seemed doubtful. Anderson was still trying to see past the small crack of open space, his beady eyes squinting with intense scrutiny.

"He's lying," Anderson spat, quite sure of himself.

"No, no." John's lips pursed and he shook his head cautiously. "No it was definitely me. I vomited. You heard me." He paused awkwardly, unsure of what to say. He wasn't the greatest liar. In fact he wasn't very good at all. "_Vomiting_."

"You don't look ill," Anderson noted, chin lifting as he scoured the doctor's face.

"Oh I am. Very, _very_ ill." John grimaced again for show, curling in on himself with a forced moan. His gaze glanced upwards, hoping to catch some glimpse that they were buying his story. Sadly they still seemed rather un-convinced.

"Where's the freak then?" Donovan questioned, arms folding across her chest as she looked about. "I saw him run in there with you."

"He's in here - you know, taking care of me," John said quickly before realizing just how unbelievable that statement really was. Inwardly he chastised himself, vowing to practice the art of deception when he got home. He really was quite awful at all of this.

Donovan's brows arched and she barked a short, rude guffaw. "Now that's a laugh."

From the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock motioning for him to close the door and without even a second's hesitation he did, rather enjoying the startled look upon both their faces as it snapped shut with a thudding slam.

"_Sick_," Sherlock muttered with a heavy pant, before heaving a mouthful of yellow bile once more into the toilet bowl. For once the detective's light diet came in handy as there was barely anything to vomit up and he would be done within a few more rounds. At most he had one more go in him before it turned to dry heaving.

"I know, I know." John inched closer to the detective, placing a reassuring hand against his back. Well aware that both Anderson and Donovan were still more than likely waiting outside he door, he hatched a plan. "Repeat after me, Sherlock. _It's okay, John_."

Stomach easing slightly, Sherlock wiped his soiled mouth and grunted in reply, "_It's okay, John_."

"Louder," John whispered as he jerked his head towards the door. Understanding at once, Sherlock nodded.

"It's okay, John." John walked to the small sink, filling a plastic up with water and handing it to the detective.

"Wonderful. Now say: _here you go_, _rinse your mouth and drink_."

"Here you go. Rinse your mouth and drink," Sherlock proclaimed with a bit of volume, accepting the cup as he quickly did as he was instructed to do.

"_You'll listen to me next time, won't you?_"

"You'll listen to me next time, won't you John?"

"I will. I should've listened _this_ time. Maybe then I wouldn't be so bloody ill," John replied, mouth pressed closely by the door – sure now that the two buffoons outside of it were eating up every word. There was a shuffling of feet and soon their voices were drifting away, clearly disappointed that they had been wrong. Waiting a moment, he nodded with satisfaction. "All right," he said with a clap of the hands. Sliding his mobile phone out of his pocket, he quickly glanced at the time. "We should be docking in the next two minutes. Think you can keep your stomach put until then?"

Sherlock swallowed thickly, then nodded. Rising to his feet slowly, he flushed the toilet and ran the sink, washing his face and hands until his appearance regained some semblance of it's natural color.

"_So_ what do you think? Shall we do this again on the ride home or are you going to take the damn Dramamine?" The pill case had re-emerged, and John held it out as he had done earlier that morning.

Sherlock stared, blinking absently before snatching the small, white capsule and placing it between his teeth. He chewed feverishly and flashed the doctor a slightly crooked, and somewhat apologetic (well, as apologetic as the great Sherlock Holmes could get) grin.

"_Absolutely_."

* * *

><p><em>next -<em>** E** IS FOR: eat & **F** IS FOR: freak If anyone has any ideas for G I would love to hear them!


	5. E: eat

**E** IS FOR: eat

"I said _eat _it."

Sherlock glowered at the older man lying supine atop the couch's warm, thick cushions, buried beneath a hazy sea of blankets and knitted sheets. In his his right hand, the detective held a bowl of steaming soup - the hot air rising from it and practically clouding his pale, blue eyes. In his left was a metal spoon that he held precariously above the older man, threateningly.

John stared back with a feverish gaze, cheekbones alight with a brilliant red hue and lungs filled with the wheezing sound of water and phlegm. "Sherlock, for the eleventh time – _I don't want the bloody soup!_"

"And it's now the _eleventh_ time I've gone and reheated this blasted meal and I don't plan on doing it again so you _will _be consuming it or there _will_ be repercussions."

John whimpered, palming at his sinuses with a sniffle. God, it felt like someone had inflated a balloon inside of his nasal cavity, leaving little to no room for air to get through. Air that he needed to breathe. Lungs rattling, he coughed loudly into his fists – chest rising slightly against the stack of pillows the detective had placed beneath his neck when he'd first flopped limply against the couch over ten hours ago.

"I'm not hungry. I feel _horrible_."

"Which is _precisely_ why you need food, John."

John snorted, eyes giving a slight roll as he tucked the covers gently up beneath his own chin, desperate to keep some of the warmth radiating from his body close to him. Shivering, he swallowed hard. His bloody throat felt like he'd been swallowing razorblades, which with Sherlock's cooking, was all together possible. One never knew what kind of experiments he was running in that blasted kitchen.

"And _you're_ one to talk."

Sherlock's brow crinkled and he lowered the spoon hesitantly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Sherlock, you never eat."

"That's because I don't like it," Sherlock said plainly. They'd had this conversation a thousand times and a thousand times John had given up. It was always the same and there was no winning. "Digestion impedes my ability to think."

"Actually it's your _eating disorder_ that impedes your ability to digest since you know, there's never anything in there _to_ digest. Unless you count air as food which most of us don't. And the whole bit about thinking, well that's just psychosomatic nonsense and you know it."

Sherlock's lips pursed. Extending the bowl of soup carefully once more, he eyed the doctor expressionlessly. "Eat it."

John frowned, a somewhat childlike pout spreading across his flushed face and he yanked the sheets above his head, burying himself beneath their cave like fortress. "Leave me _alone, _Sherlock," he groaned aloud, his voice cutting in and out with a series of raspy, flu-ish breaths.

"_That's enough of that._"

Within seconds the blankets were removed completely, thrown to the ground and John was sitting up against his own will due to a series of pushes and prods from the detective's impatient hands. "Sherlock –," he started to protest before a spoon was promptly shoved into his mouth. Instinctively he swallowed the hot contents down.

"_There_," Sherlock said defiantly with a smug sort of grin, blowing upwards until his curls shifted way from his eyes. "Isn't that better?"

Despite all his fighting, John had to admit that the warmth of the liquid did indeed feel quite nice against his poor, dried throat. However, he would never admit this to the impetuous younger man. Instead he glared, muttered a begrudging, "_if I must_," and snatched the spoon from the detective's grasp.

"I don't know why you had to be so difficult about it. Honestly, John."

"_Difficult_?" John nearly choked, spluttering as he was careful not to spill the steaming bowl onto his lap or the floor below. "You're lecturing _me _about difficult?"

"Well I don't want to be the one to say it, but you often _are_."

"_I'm_ the difficult one?"

Sherlock stared quietly. "Yes, of course."

"_Me_?" John practically gaped, lowering the spoon back into the bowl.

Sighing with irritation, Sherlock frowned. "For the last time, yes. _You_."

"Of _course_," John said dryly as he shoveled a few more spoonfuls into his mouth, his words garbled through the hot broth. "Of course I'm the difficult one. I _completely_ see that now." They sat in silence as John finished the bowl. Presenting the empty object, he cocked his head to the side. "There. Are you pleased?"

Sherlock sighed with relief, as though he hadn't been certain the doctor would listen in the first place and he nodded with contentedness. "_Most_."

Grabbing at the box of tissues that the detective had placed nearby for him, John blew his nose noisily. He was so damn miserable and this cold was only just beginning to have it's way with him. "I _do_ wish that you would eat more, Sherlock," he murmured absently as he crumpled the used rags into his fists. Lifting his gaze to meet that of the detective's, he furrowed his brow. "I worry, you know. Constantly."

"Yes well, that's the doctor in you." Sherlock's voice was flat and unamused.

"_No_," John said adamantly (though with that bloody head cold it came out more like "_Doh_"). "That would be the friend in me."

"I'm fine, John."

"No, actually, you're not. And that's okay." John paused momentarily, licking his lower lip in thought. "For now, at least. But please promise me you'll try to take better care of yourself. I can't always be there to watch you. Look at today. I can barely take care of _myself_."

"Which is why I made you soup. And got you tissues. And blankets," Sherlock listed, counting off on his fingers as he did so. "I even tucked you in so you wouldn't feel chilled."

"That's all well and good," John started before cutting himself off, eye's narrowing warily. " – you tucked me in?"

"You were _shaking_," Sherlock said with a slight glare, clearly not impressed with the doctor's reaction to his helpfulness. "I figured you would sleep better that way. I know I would have."

"Except you _don't_ sleep," John bantered quickly. "Another one of your incredibly healthy habits, I might add."

"_Details_," Sherlock muttered dismissively. "The point is, _John_," he drawled with a hint of a scowl before continuing, "that I _can_ take care of you. So lay back down, _shut up_ and let me do it already!"

John couldn't help but grin. "Aye, aye _doctor_." Settling back against the cushions once more, he allowed Sherlock to lightly drape the blankets back over his still shivering figure.

Stepping back, the detective waited. "Now will you _please_ try and go back to sleep?"

"Only if when I wake up you promise to eat supper with me. A _full_ supper," John clarified quickly. "If you're going to take care of me, I'm bloody well going to take care of you. And if you refuse I'll go stand out in the rain until this cold finally manages to kill me." He shot the detective the most pathetic look he could muster, sure that his bright red cheekbones and sweat stained face would do the trick. Sherlock, however, appeared to be un-moved by this tactic.

"I could lock you inside."

"I have a key, Sherlock."

"I could hide your key."

"I made a spare. And I'm fairly certain you don't need a key to get _outside_. Just to get back in."

"I could block you with my body. At the door. You're clearly weakened from your poorly state. You'd be no match."

"_Sherlock_."

Quite obviously weighing the options of the deal presented to him, Sherlock finally gave a small, curt nod. "_Fine_," he said with a hiss of air escaping his lips. "A full supper it is. Now _please_," he said insistently, eyes narrowing with sincerity. "Get some sleep."

Sighing as he sunk into the pillows, John finally felt his lungs begin to open up. Even though it burned his raw, aching lungs - air had never felt so sweet. "_Sherlock_?"

"Yes, John?"

Peering through a single opened eye, John swallowed – _no pain._ For the first time in ten bloody hours. No pain. "Thanks for the soup."

* * *

><p>You guys had asked for more sickhurt John so I will try to incorporate more of that. I hope this is an okay chapter. You guys give the best reviews and it makes my day to read them. :) Also I LOVED everyone's suggestions for G. I know what I want to do and I will give the person credit when I do it. Thank you! xoxo why-do-we


	6. F: freak

**F** IS FOR: freak

"I really appreciate you dropping him off like this."

"Yes, well it was a _bit_ of an unusual circumstance and I felt it best he stay home with you for the day." Lestrade's face was grim and his mouth was set in a stern, thin line as he stared at John from the outer edges of the doorway. Clasped in the Detective Inspector's arms, wrapped tightly in a blanket that he clearly felt he need not be wearing – was Sherlock. His left wrist was bandaged, a worn white cloth loosely swaddled around it. He kept his right arm out of sight, a dark and glowering look upon his features. John reached out, holding a steady hand to his flat-mate's cheek momentarily before ushering him through the threshold.

"Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson's made you some tea. Why don't you go upstairs and join her? I'll be up in a minute," John said gently, easing the blanket off of the younger man's shoulders before handing it back to Lestrade. Wordlessly, and with eyes still downcast, Sherlock slipped past the doctor and clambered up the stairs much like a sullen child would. Sighing heavily, John wiped his fingertips down along his face and crossed his arms against his chest. "_So_ – what in the ruddy hell happened today?"

Mirroring the doctor's sigh, Lestrade exhaled noisily. "I wish I could tell you. I've been getting all _sorts_ of mixed stories. Either no one really knows or _everyone_ bloody well knows and is covering for whoever did it."

"Whatever it was I can almost _guarantee_ that cretin, Anderson, is behind it," John grumbled angrily.

"You're probably right," Lestrade said with a shrug. "But Sherlock won't say anything either way and I've got no proof."

"Well," John said with a slight and approving nod, "you were right to bring him home." He paused. "But what exactly happened?"

"As far as I can tell it was a prank gone wrong. Apparently someone thought it would be funny to take a permanent marker of some kind to him. The most that I could get out of everyone was that someone or multiple someones – who knows – grabbed him while he was in the morgue and held his arms down so that they could write something on them over and over. Sherlock wouldn't show me what they wrote but I can only imagine it wasn't something nice."

John winced. "Bloody bullies." His chest swelled with a feeling of hurt for the younger man. He knew Sherlock never really cared what people said but the words that came out of people's mouths often nearly killed John. "Had to be more than one person then, if they were successful keeping him down that is."

"That's what I thought but you know how Sherlock is. Doesn't eat. Doesn't sleep. _Mentally_ he's strong as a fox, he is. But _physically_ – at least these days? Not so much, I'm afraid."

"So I trust someone came and got you and alerted you to the situation?" John could hear Mrs. Hudson clinking about in the kitchen, babbling to Sherlock though she was clearly getting no response whatsoever.

Lestrade sighed once more. "Unfortunately, _no_. And as soon as I get back I _will_ be having a very serious conversation with everybody."

"So everyone knew and no one said _anything_?"

"I'm guessing that it wasn't _everyone _but yes, people knew and did nothing. And I won't stand for that. Not in my office."

John frowned immediately, a wave of nausea burning inside him. "So damned cruel." He shook his head. "I can only assume this was quite the morning for you, then."

Lestrade's eyes were worn and tired as he stared at the doctor. "Honestly? When Sherlock's involved, you kind of get used to it as horrible as that may sound."

"Fair enough."

"_Anyway_, I only found out when I went to the loo and found him wrist deep in a sink full of bloodied water. Apparently he'd tried all sorts of chemicals and soap to get it off and when it didn't work decided that simply slicing off the skin with a knife was a _far_ better solution," Lestrade said a bit sarcastically, clearly disapproving of the consulting detective's methods. "He got a good chunk of it off too. I managed to stop him before he got to his other arm, though. Told him I'd be taking him home for the day and that was that."

"Well like I said, I appreciate you bringing him. I suppose I'll take it from here." The two men both nodded and John shut the door quietly behind him before plodding up the stairs; Mrs. Hudson's voice still floating through the air as she tried to coax any form of conversation out of the consulting detective. Flashing a slight smile at the elderly woman as he rounded the top stair, he glanced about. "Right – where'd he go then?"

"In his bedroom, dear," Mrs. Hudson offered sweetly. "Won't say a word, poor thing. Wouldn't even drink his tea!" she continued, bending over to collect the untouched teacups that had been set out.

"Not to worry," John assured. "I'll go check it out." Trudging through the flat, he made his way towards the younger man's bedroom – knuckles rapping against the shut (and most likely locked) door. "_Sherlock_?" he called through the wooden frame. "Come now – let me in." As he had expected, there was no response. Fingers winding around the doorknob, he gave it a short twist – pleasantly surprised to find that it was not locked.

"If you're here to mother hen me, I'm afraid I have no use for you." Sherlock was perched atop his bed amongst the clutter of experiments and discarded knickknacks. His knees were drawn upwards, though not quite against his chest while his head was bowed low. He had his right hand cradled, a paper towel in the left as he performed a rough sort of scrubbing motion at his skin. The gauze that had been hanging loosely from his left wrist was now practically unraveled and John could see the visible angst that crinkled along the consulting detective's brow. To the untrained eye, Sherlock appeared calm. Stoic. Relaxed.

But John knew better. _John knew Sherlock_. In fact, he'd never seen the younger man quite so worked up. Cautiously, he walked towards the bed before easing himself atop the soft mattress – leaving his legs to still remain on the floor so as not to impede the detective's space all too quickly. With Sherlock you had to work in steps. There were no hugs, no embraces, no sudden outbursts of affection. It took time – and it was time John was willing to take.

However, medical instinct taking over, John reached out and grabbed both Sherlock's arms – holding them steady as the younger man fidgeted, trying to snake them back from the unwanted grasp. "Mother hen or not," John stated calmly as he allowed his grip to remain firm, removing the paper towel soaked with God-only-knows-what mixture of chemicals from the detective's hand. "This clearly isn't the solution. Now let me take a look."

"I'm fine."

"You most definitely are _not_," John dismissed. "Now relax your arms and let me have at them." Sherlock glared furiously, yet when realizing there was no swaying the doctor from his determination, he allowed his shoulders and hands to ease. John smiled gently, bringing his legs up onto the bed at last until the two men sat side-by-side.

Gingerly he began to unwrap the bandages, holding the detective's wrist to his lap as he did so. Sherlock winced as the rush of cool air whipped across his now bare and open cuts. Beneath the clots and smears of blood John could make out the faintest of black marker – though unable to read just what it had once said.

"They wrote _freak_." Sherlock's voice was beyond grave. Practically silent – emotionless to those that didn't know. Again, John knew. He heard the hurt.

"Anderson?" Sherlock said nothing. John sighed, shaking his head as the sight of his flat-mate's shredded wrist sunk back into view. "Sherlock, you could've killed yourself."

"I was just removing the ink, John." Sherlock sniffed indignantly.

"Yeah, well, you're bloody lucky you didn't hit any major veins." John wanted to shout at him – shake him. Something to make him see how dangerous his behavior was. All of it. The lack of food, the lack of sleep, the complete and utter disregard for his own well being. "With all your smarts, why on earth would you ever think slicing your skin was the best option?"

"It wouldn't come off," Sherlock responded, eyes narrowing as though the answer were obvious.

Swallowing at the air around him, John closed his eyes and took a calming breath. "_Right_." Sliding the detective's bloodied arm off of his lap, he pulled the right hand in to take it's place. "Let's let those cuts breathe for awhile, why don't we. I can bandage them proper in a bit." Rolling up the younger man's sleeve, he found the right arm to be far less bloody – though still slightly raw and red from all the scrubbing.

"You can still see it." Sherlock was clearly bothered by this fact, squirming more at the sight of this wrist then the bloodied one as though he were somewhat ashamed of it. "Roll it back down," he commanded curtly with a nod towards his sleeve.

John, however, shook his head in silence. Tracing his fingertips lightly against his companion's skin he felt himself aching. Sherlock had done quite the job getting most of the ink out. He could still see a few scattered letters though they were faint at best. In fact if he hadn't known the story he wouldn't have even noticed them at all. Sherlock, though, seemed to be burning a hole through them. It was though they were all he could see – his eyes intensely fixated upon every inch of his skin.

Most visible were the _F_ and the _E. _The rest had been washed away in a bath of chemicals and intense rubbing, no doubt. An idea striking him, John held his hand up. "Don't move," he instructed firmly. Before the detective had even a moment to response he was off the bed and dashing about the flat in search of what he needed. Seconds later he reappeared – of course to find that Sherlock had ignored his demands – his sleeve already rolled back down against his wrists. "I thought I told you not to move."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

Eyes rolling, John reclaimed his seat atop the bed and snatched the detective's arm back into his grasp. Sherlock protested, growling slightly against the doctor's touch. "Stay _still_, Sherlock," John grunted as he wrestled against the younger man's squirms.

"John, please. I don't want to see it again." Sherlock's voice was practically a whimper now. And John knew in that moment that no matter how many walls the detective put up and no matter how many times he swore none of their taunts or jokes would ever get to him – well, they had finally done it.

They had gotten to him.

He could ignore their passing jeers. He could even ignore their blatant hatred. But what he couldn't ignore was his own skin maliciously spelling out to him what he never wanted to be: _a freak_.

"Sherlock, listen to me" John murmured. He kept his gaze level with that of the detective, speaking slowly and carefully. "You are _not _a freak. But this - _this is what you are_." With that he produced a marker that he had grabbed from the kitchen just minutes ago, uncapping it loudly before taking his flat-mate's arm gently and beginning to sweetly scribble against the younger man's skin.

When he was finished, he displayed the final product with pride.

Where it had once read: _FREAK _in garishly cruel black scrawl, it now read: _FRIEND_.

"Oh, one more little thing." Scribbling once more, John added the final touch with a brightly crooked grin. "Forgot to sign my name. Can't have that, now can we?"

Sherlock stared at his arm.

_JOHN'S FRIEND_.

John's friend.

Smiling to himself, he nodded. He wasn't a freak at all. He was Sherlock Holmes. He was the world's first consulting detective. He was _brilliant._

But most importantly, he was John's friend.


End file.
